What Was and What Will Be
by Jedi Sapphire
Summary: On a cold winter's night, in the middle of a snowstorm, dealing with demons and curses and three mysterious women, Sam and Dean understand something about what really matters. Vague spoilers through to the end of Season 9. Written for spn j2 xmas 2014.


**Author's Note: **This is for safiyabat for spn_j2_xmas. I've sort of combined three of her prompts and interpreted them very loosely. I hope you like this.

Many thanks to Cheryl for the beta on this, and to SandyDee84 for listening to me ramble about plot ideas. And of course to the wonderful mods for all their hard work running this challenge.

I know I have a bunch of reviews to reply to. Unfortunately RL hasn't cut me a break, and I'll need to have a medical procedure done later this week, so it's going to be a while before I can get to them. I do appreciate every single review. Happy holidays, and Merry Christmas to everyone who celebrates it!

**Summary: **On a cold winter's night, in the middle of a snowstorm, dealing with demons and curses and three mysterious women, Sam and Dean understand something about what really matters.

**What Was and What Will Be**

The night was chilly, but not cold. The Gods had been good this year; a long summer and a bountiful autumn had been followed by a mild winter. The full moon of Yule hung yellow and heavy on the horizon. The children, made lazy by their full stomachs, sat on the grass at Grainne's feet.

"Tell us a story!" little Airic demanded, half pleading and half imperious.

"Yes, a story!" echoed Edna, and one by one the other piping voices joined in. Grainne laughed and nodded to Reaghan and Iona to join her.

They sat side by side, smiling at the eager upturned faces, and Grainne could not hold back a smile in response. So many times they had done this over the centuries, and although the faces of the children changed, their light and laughter and innocence were always the same.

Grainne picked up her cup and shook the last drops of wine onto the earth, a gift in exchange for the promise of spring. Then she reached into the folds of her robes and took out a gemstone, a perfectly round ruby polished to a high sheen.

"This is for what was," she said, putting it in the cup.

She passed the cup to Reaghan, who dropped in an emerald, saying, "This is for what is."

Last came Iona and a sapphire as blue as the skies over the long-ago lands to the south. "This is for what will be," Iona announced.

Iona looked around at the children, finally calling one to come to her, close his eyes, and pick a gemstone from the cup. Grainne saw his nose wrinkle at the banked-ember heat of it before he laid it gently in Iona's outstretched hand.

Iona held it out for all to see: the sapphire glittered in the moonlight.

"So be it," Grainne said. "Tonight we will tell you a story of what the future holds."

* * *

There is a distant land across the great ocean to the west. It is a time so far in the future that our ways have been forgotten and nothing remains of our Gods but legend. It is Yule. Fat flakes of snow drift from grey skies.

There are two brothers. They are warriors, hunters of the shadow, guardians against the darkness and chaos that threatens the world. The older is called Dean, and the younger is called Sam.

They bear great love for each other, and this has given them the strength to fight foes that would make the most valiant warriors quail. Together they have defeated demons, trapped the spirit of chaos who in this future time calls himself Lucifer, as the Romans named the morning star, and banished to their cold home the unholy creatures from the other realm.

All this they did, and their love for each other has withstood every test.

But now they face the greatest test of all. For the older brother, Dean, born with the spirit of a warrior, allowed himself to be touched by the evil of fratricide. He used the weapon with which brother first killed brother, and its darkness twisted his soul.

Sam had to plumb the dark places of his own soul to find Dean and heal him of this most grievous of wounds. It was terrifying and perilous, but Sam thought of his brother and was strong.

He healed Dean, driving away the darkness that threatened him. But even Sam, wise beyond his years, could not truly understand the harm that had been done. Sam had dwelt for years past counting in the deepest parts of the Underworld to save his brother and save the world, as the ancient people of the southern seas said their Goddess Ishtar did to save Tammuz her lover. Even then, the evil of Lucifer could not harm him as terribly as the memory of the first fratricide did Dean.

Dean is frightened, because he lived those dark months with the song of the Firstblade, the weapon of Cain, filling his mind. It sang to him of blood and anger, of hatred and envy, and all that stood against that black tide was a whisper of memory. Sam knows how close Dean came to killing him, but he does not know how the idea made Dean's heart sing. He is frightened that Sam will disown him, for Sam, even when possessed by the spirit of the fallen Archangel, could not be forced to kill his brother.

Dean is frightened, but he has not dared speak of his fears to Sam, and so they fester in his soul. Sam knows Dean is troubled, but he cannot read minds, and Dean will say nothing.

Sam suffers the brunt of his brother's fears; he is the only target available. Dean lashes out in anger, often, and although he thinks Sam understands that it is his fear of losing his brother that makes him angry, although he apologizes without words, with gifts of books and sweets and food he makes with the same hands that would have taken Sam's life, he cannot unsay the bitter words that spill from his mouth.

* * *

The brothers are in a large city on the shores of a vast lake. They are pursuing a restless spirit. It is not evil; only lost and confused. But it must be helped to find its way to its Gods, the new Gods of this future world.

Dean, ever the warrior, has ventured out, in the snow and the cold and the ice, to speak to those who knew the woman Alice in life. He drives down the frozen street in his chariot – and the chariots of the future are drawn not by horses but by fire and wind – and in his heart of hearts he wonders if there is some great deed he can do, something so noble and heroic that it will wipe out the night when he nearly spilled his brother's lifeblood.

But there are no dragons to slay.

Outside the great hall where the physicians of the future tended to the ill and the wounded, where he hopes to find Alice's grieving husband, he sees a small child. Her eyes are blue as forget-me-nots, as blue as the summer sky, and red with weeping. He stops, and asks her what her trouble is.

She holds out her arms. In them is a ragged orange cat. It has a deep wound in its side, and blood seeps from it sluggishly.

"I ran it over," the girl sobs. "With my bike." A bike, my children, is a cart, a two-wheeled cart powered by the rider's own strength.

The horrified girl brought the cat to the physicians, but many of their number were away, celebrating Yule in their homes, and the ice and snow and fog cause accidents and illnesses enough that those who remain have not a moment to spare from tending to men and women.

Dean takes the girl to his chariot, which he calls Impala. In it he has bandages and needles and potions that heal wounds. He and Sam keep them to tend to each other, but Dean finds that they can be used as well on a cat.

The little girl is ecstatic, hugging the animal close and vowing to take it home and look after it.

Then, suddenly, she looks up at Dean with shining eyes. "I'll help you," she promises. "If you ever need me to fix you up when you're hurt."

Dean doesn't think he'll ever need the help of a child, but he smiles and thanks her.

* * *

Sam sits awhile indoors, but his mind wanders from his books. He has been worried about his brother; yet his soul is still light enough that Yule has lifted his spirits and made him long for laughter and joy and a brief respite from the grimness of death. Perhaps, he thinks, he can make Yule lift Dean's spirits as well.

He leaves his books and goes out, walking the streets without quite knowing where he walks. He has been out for a short time when he sees an old woman. Her hair is white, and she is dressed all in red, scarf and coat and mittens. She sits on a wooden bench, distress so strong that Sam can feel it.

She has lost her home, she tells him. She is old, and her memory has grown uncertain. She left the house to buy milk and eggs. Now she cannot remember how to go home again.

Sam urges her to search her pockets, and at long last she finds that her name and the way to her home are inscribed on a bracelet she wears on her left wrist. It is nearby, and Sam takes her there, holding her purchases for her and offering her his arm when the road grows slippery and treacherous.

When she is on her own doorstep again, she turns to him in gratitude and says, "Sam Winchester, if ever you are lost, say only, 'Wise woman, take me home,' and I will come to help you."

She goes inside before Sam can ask how she knows his name.

* * *

When Dean returns to the hall of physicians, Alice's husband has left. He lingers to speak to others who knew her. Their voices are warm as they speak of her. They tell him she was happy and beautiful. This is true, but it is not the answer he seeks. Alice's spirit is restless, and he must know the unfinished work of her life to know why.

He leaves, intending to seek Alice's husband. He knows he will not be welcome, but hunters of shadows do not expect guest-right.

Sitting in his Impala, Dean find his cell phone – it is such a thing as you cannot imagine, a bauble of metal and science that lets him speak to his brother across the leagues – and tries to reach Sam.

Sam does not answer.

Dean has a moment of cold panic, his mind flying to another time, another place, when Dean was sucked through a portal to the realm beyond and Sam found he had not the heart for a hunter's life alone.

Then, too, Sam's cell phone rang unanswered.

Something in Dean whispers that this is the moment he has been dreading. Sam has learnt what Dean fought so hard to conceal, or perhaps he simply grew weary of being the target of his brother's temper. No matter the cause, Sam is gone. Sam must be gone. Why else would he not answer his brother?

* * *

Sam has walked the streets for what seems like hours, drawn on by something he cannot identify. He comes at last to a small toyshop. This is a special shop, one that is outside time and space, and yet a part of the human world. Sam does not know this, but the same instinct that led him here urges him to open the door and go in.

Inside, he sees row upon row of small wooden clockwork toys. They are in all shapes: people, animals, towers, castles, strange carts and buildings known only to the future. A woman sits among them, with eyes as green as grass and a gown of the same hue.

She looks sad and worried, and Sam finds himself asking if he can help her.

The woman – Sam cannot say if she is old or young – sighs. "I cannot leave this room. I have not left this room for three months."

"What happened?"

"A hunter of shadows mistook me for one fit to be his prey." Sam's eyes widen, and she smiles at him sadly. "What have I done that your kind should mistrust me, Sam?"

"You know my name."

"I have the gift of Sight. And perhaps I have other gifts, but I have never used them to harm a living creature, save those that wrought ill upon others and so brought it upon themselves."

Sam meets her eyes and sees truth in them. "Promise me," he says. "Promise me you mean no harm."

"I swear it. I swear by all I have ever loved, by all the Gods I have ever known, by the years I have lived and the leagues I have walked to come here, I mean no harm, Sam."

"What should I do?"

She shows him where the room is ringed around with symbols of protection and power, laid on the floor by a hunter's hand. Sam does not understand all the marks, but he understands enough to know what to do.

The workshop supplies the paint he needs, and soon Sam has covered some of the symbols and changed others. He works quickly, deftly, and in minutes the task is done.

The woman rises. She goes first to her workshop, joy breaking across her face as she crosses the threshold for the first time in three months.

She looks at Sam. Her smile is warm and gentle. Perhaps this is how his long-dead mother smiled when she rocked his cradle. There is something in her face – a trick of the light, Sam thinks – that makes her look a little familiar, a little like Mary Winchester, whom Sam knows only from pictures.

"You have no idea how much this means to me, Sam," she tells him. "My soul was heavy when this door was closed to me. Never let it be said that I am ungrateful. If ever a time comes when there are doors closed to you, I will help you open them."

* * *

The inns of the future are dank and musty, much like ours.

Dean opens the door to the room he shares with Sam. The room is empty. Sam's things sit on his bed and his books on the table, so, wherever he has gone, it is clearly not far.

Dean tries to reach his brother on his cell phone again; again, he receives no answer.

That is when he realizes that there is a strange odour in the room, masked at first by mildew. He could not smell it earlier, but once he is fully inside the room it assails his nostrils.

Sulphur.

The scent of a demon.

Heart racing, Dean calls Sam again. There is no response. He hopes against hope that Sam simply cannot hear his phone, but in the life of a hunter, the good answer is seldom the right answer.

Fear gnaws at him like a living thing. He thought he could not feel this sort of fear again; he thought having his soul twisted had expelled this weakness. He knows now how wrong that was. Dean is more terrified than he would have been before. He has been a demon, he knows the anger and violence and frustration it engenders, and he can barely breathe when he thinks of that vortex of dark emotion being directed against Sam.

He runs out, knowing only that he must find his brother.

* * *

Sam is at the door when the woman suddenly remembers her trade.

"Do you want to buy something?" she asks. "I have many fine toys."

Sam did not intend to buy anything, but, as he looks around, he cannot help thinking of Dean and their childhood that was lost to vengeance and the hunt for evil. Little clockwork toys wrapped in bright paper cannot return the years they lost, but perhaps they can bring a semblance of peace to Dean's soul now.

Before Sam can speak, the woman says, "Come with me. There are finer ones in the workshop."

The ones in the workshop are indeed finer, more cunningly carved and delicately painted. There are animals of all kinds, soldiers, dancers, acrobats, castles with working drawbridges, but Sam's eye is drawn to one toy in particular: a small family. A bearded man holds a small boy, while a woman with hair like spun gold looks on smiling. It is not as brightly coloured as the others, but it is beautiful.

When Sam turns the key, the man raises the boy into the air and the woman claps her hands.

"It is incomplete," the woman says when she sees Sam looking. She indicates a small piece of wood beside the toy. "I was working on it when I was trapped in the front room."

"Maybe it's better incomplete."

Her eyes are full of pity, and it makes him turn away as he asks the price.

She is quiet as he pays her, but, as she is packing it for him, she puts in the piece of wood as well.

"Take it," she tells Sam when he protests. "It is only a piece of wood."

* * *

Snow is falling harder, and Dean must perforce drive slowly. Much like a horse, his Impala does not handle ice well. The delay makes him chafe. Every moment lost is another moment Sam is in the hands of demons.

He is just emerging from the library, whose keepers could tell him only that Sam left hours ago. The keeper of the inn does not know where Sam went. Sam himself left no clue – and he will still not answer his cell phone.

When a woman moves from her seat on a bench to grasp Dean's arm, he shakes her off.

"Please," she says. "I need help."

"Not now." Dean's voice is brusque.

"Please, sir –"

"They can help you inside."

"It will only take a moment!"

"Not now!" Dean snaps, turning on her, the anger in his eyes so great that she shrinks away. "My brother's missing! Whatever your problem is, I don't have time for it."

"Indeed," she says, and suddenly her eyes glow like green fire. "So be it. If fear for your brother gives you hard words to drive away strangers in need, then perhaps fear for your brother should give you hard words to drive him away as well, into the peril of a demon's power. Then at least there can be some cause for you to be afraid."

Dean feels a tightness in his skin as she finishes speaking and he knows it is a curse.

"No," he gasps. "No, come on. That's not even fair! Sam didn't do anything!"

"But you did, and I can think of no greater punishment for you than to know that your brother has come to harm by your actions. You reap what you sow, Dean Winchester." She turns away.

"No, please! I'm sorry I didn't help you! Be reasonable… What would you have done?"

"I?" Her voice is scornful. "I would offer help where I could."

"Would you? Do you have brothers – or sisters?" She half-turns to face him. "You do. Fine. If one of them were lost – maybe hurt, maybe dying – would you stop to help strangers even then? Would you?"

"That is not –"

"And even if it's my fault, how can you punish Sam for it? How the hell is that fair?" She looks indecisive, and he begs, "Please. Please, if you think I screwed up, punish me for it. Don't hurt Sammy."

"I…" The words die in her throat. "Perhaps you were not the only one who spoke in haste."

"So you'll undo it?"

Distress is in her face. "Would that I could. What I have once spoken cannot be undone, not even by me."

"Is there a counter-curse or spell or… I don't know, _anything_?"

"I… Yes. I cannot undo what I have done, but perhaps I can change the ending. Hear me, Dean Winchester. You will use hard words to drive your brother from you, and he will be taken by one of your bitterest foes. But if you can find him before he comes to harm, he will be returned to you, and you will both gain something of value."

* * *

The wooden chair is uncomfortable, but Sam barely notices it. He is happily conscious of the package he has hidden among his things. His attention is only half on the page in front of him.

When the door opens, he jumps to his feet with his brother's name on his lips. But Dean looks worried, and that saps Sam's eagerness. He has looked up to his older brother all his life. He can read Dean's every expression. This one, he knows, is apprehension.

"Dean, what's wrong?"

"Where were you?" Dean demands.

"I was out," Sam says, confused by his brother's unexpected anger. "Dean, is everything all right? Was there a problem with Alice's husband?"

An impatient shake of the head shows Dean's opinion of Alice's husband.

"I came back and you were missing. I was out looking for you. You've not been answering your cell phone. Do you have any idea how worried I've been?"

Sam thrusts his hands into his pockets and finds nothing.

"I must have dropped it. I'm sorry."

He expects teasing, perhaps even irritation. What he does not expect is the fury that follows.

Dean, even as he speaks, knows only that he is afraid – afraid Sam will leave, afraid of life without his brother, afraid of the mind-numbing terror he knows will come if Sam ever does truly disappear and leave no trace.

Does it matter what is said? Hard words are spoken. Dean speaks, but he does not quite control himself. He hears accusations of selfishness and lack of concern; the voice is his, but it is as though another is directing his words. Dean is alone in the room when he realizes what he has done, realizes that the strange woman's curse has come true. He has driven his brother away.

A package among Sam's things catches his eye. It is a box, wrapped in bright paper tied with a red ribbon.

Dean knows at once what it is, and his stomach sinks. He himself has nothing to give Sam for Yule – and now he has sent his brother out into the cold, snowy night. Alone.

That is when he remembers the woman's promise. If he can find Sam before he comes to harm…

Determined, he goes back outdoors to his Impala.

* * *

Scarcely is Sam a few yards from the door than when a dark figure appears in front of him. The air stings with sulphur. Snowflakes melt in the unexpected warmth.

Sam need not look up to know that the newcomer is Crowley, King of Hell, the demon who was responsible for Dean's transformation, the demon who has, over the years and the battles, been both their friend and their enemy.

Sam reaches for his blade, but before he can touch it, Crowley's hands are on him.

Sam's world dissolves into darkness.

* * *

When Sam wakes, he is tied to a chair. Crowley stands before him, a grinning demon on either side.

Crowley greets him with an odd mixture of genuine warmth and indifference. Sam ignores him, choosing instead to look around.

He is in a large room in what looks like an old manor. It is decorated for Yule in the fashion of the future. The huge stone fireplace has a roaring fire, filling the air with the scent of wood-smoke and pine. Wreaths of holly and sprigs of mistletoe festoon the walls. A large fir tree, which Sam knows as the traditional symbol of Yule, stands in a corner. Under it are several boxes decorated with bright ribbons.

That is not all, though. There are other things in the room, things with a very different purpose that make Sam blush for shame and avert his eyes. The sight makes the demons laugh.

"Merry Christmas," Crowley says.

Sam stares. Of the many things he had expected to hear from Crowley, he had never imagined good wishes for Yule.

"It's been a rough year, Sam, with your problems with Dean and everything."

Crowley sounds almost sympathetic. Sam is immediately suspicious.

"Whose fault is that?" he asks.

"I'm not saying I'm completely innocent. But I don't want you boys coming after me."

"You thought kidnapping me was the way to make that happen?"

Crowley scoffs. "You think I have a death wish? I don't want to be on Dean's list. This isn't a kidnapping, Sam. I brought you here so I could give you a present. Then I'm going to let you go. I can't promise there won't be a mark on you… Because that's kind of the point."

"What are you talking about?"

Crowley turns to one of his minions. "Get his shirt off. We might as well get on with it."

"What? No!"

Sam's protests are ignored. Bound to the chair, he is powerless to stop the demon as it cuts through the linen and pulls the shreds of Sam's shirt from his bare chest. Crowley's lascivious smirk brings furious colour to Sam's cheeks.

Crowley laughs at Sam's blush. "Don't worry, moose. Your honour is safe with us." He goes to a nearby table and selects one of the implements. "Can't say the same for the rest of you."

* * *

Dean has roamed the snowy streets for hours. He is weary, hungry and thirsty, but he cannot think of stopping. He remembers the smell of sulphur in the room; there was a demon there earlier, and he has sent Sam straight into its arms.

He has stopped at every shop that was open, asked every person he saw hurrying down the street on an errand, to no avail. Most have ignored him altogether, intent on their own pursuits on this cold winter's night. Dean thinks then of the woman to whom he refused help. He knows this is her doing, or at least the doing of her initial curse. His regret is tinged with anger; he might not have helped her, but surely there was some excuse. She cannot possibly have loved anybody, not as Dean loves Sam, she cannot possibly have felt responsible for the health and happiness of another human being, or she would have understood.

When he has been rebuffed for what feels like the thousandth time that night, Dean's spirit is nearly broken. He sits on a bench, unable to summon the strength even to walk back to his Impala. Sam is alone, and Dean cannot help him.

All Dean can do is sit and watch the falling snow.

There are tears in his eyes, frustration and grief and worry, and he blinks them away angrily. Tears will not help Sam.

Nothing Dean can do will help Sam.

"Dean Winchester."

Dean looks up at the sound of his name. There before him is a young woman clad all in red. Her garments are expensive and well-cut. She does not seem the kind of woman who would be abroad on a night like this.

"Yes?" Dean asks.

"Your brother has a gift of me. You are his soulmate, so, if you wish it, I can give it to you."

"A gift? I don't understand."

"If you ask it of me, I can guide you home."

Home? Dean barely suppresses a bitter laugh. He does not know which home she means – his Impala is a few feet away, and he needs no guidance. Whether she means the inn or the secret keep he shares with Sam many leagues away, he will not return without his brother.

He is about to say so, but she raises a hand to forestall him. "Dean Winchester, if you ask it of me, I can guide you _home_."

She places stress on the last word, as though she is trying to teach him something simple he has failed to understand.

"Which home?" Dean asks.

"Your home. You must tell me, Dean Winchester, which is your home?"

_The bunker_, Dean is about to answer, naming the building where he and Sam live, but the words do not come out. The bunker is not home without Sam. Nothing is home without Sam.

It takes a moment, but Dean understands.

"Home is… where Sam is?"

"Is it?"

"Yes." Dean's voice is strong now. Confident. "Home is where Sam is."

"If you ask it of me, I can guide you home."

Dean nods. "Please. Guide me home."

* * *

Sam is no stranger to pain, and the stabs of it radiating from his chest are far from the worst he has known. But it is another blow to his control of his own body, another violation of his will, and he twists his wrists in his bonds.

It does him no good. The demon did its work well. His wrists are bloody, his arms are sore, his shoulders wrenched almost out of their sockets, but he cannot move from under the knife.

Almost as though Crowley has read his mind, the King of Hell peers over the shoulder of the demon working on Sam.

"I told you to use a needle. If his brother sees all that blood, he's going to cut you up and feed your organs to Juliet."

The demon shrugs. "You wanted the tattoo. Nobody said I couldn't hurt him in the process. I need to get something out of this." It digs the knife in. Sam grits his teeth. "What do you think it'll take to make him scream, boss?"

"More than my life is worth." Crowley grins at Sam. "So, do you like your Christmas present, Samantha?"

"Get the hell away from me," Sam growls.

"Awww, don't be like that," says Crowley. "You should be glad I'm thinking about your welfare. Well, more than big brother."

"Done," the other demon announces, with one final vicious stab into Sam's skin and one final burning splash of ink.

"Good. Now mop up all the blood on the ground. And bring me some antiseptic. I didn't go to all this trouble to have the moose die of infection."

The demon stumps away.

Left alone with Crowley, Sam can't help mumbling, "Why?"

Why the pain? Why the kidnapping? Why did Crowley choose this ridiculous roundabout way to help him? Why is Crowley helping him at all? Sam doesn't know what he wants to know.

Crowley is watching him with a faint frown. "I don't want anyone tempted to possess you, Sam. What's in here…" He taps Sam's forehead. "I don't know how you're still sane. But aside from Lucifer and Michael and the unspeakable things they did to you, there's knowledge in there I don't want anyone to have. Not angels and not demons. Gadreel's dead. Meg's dead. It's annoying to have to keep killing people because they know too much. It's in my interest to make sure you can't be possessed."

"Why not just kill me, then?"

"Really, moose? First, your brother would feed _me _to Juliet. Second, you're very bad at staying dead." He moves away, coming back with a mirror. "Here you go."

The mirror is held over him. Sam looks into his own eyes, narrow with pain, and then his gaze travels down. It is difficult to see through the blood, but he can, just faintly, discern the outlines of an anti-possession tattoo.

* * *

Dean's Impala comes to a halt outside one of the newest buildings in the city. It is made of shining glass and gleaming metal, and so high he must crane his neck to see the top.

Demons normally choose buildings that are abandoned and decrepit, the better to go unnoticed.

"Are you sure this is it?" Dean asks.

"You will find your brother here. Good luck, Dean Winchester." She starts to get out, pauses, and turns back to him. "For the love you bear your brother, I will give you counsel. When you go inside, you will see four men who will try to harm you. They are only creatures of mist and shadow put there to keep you from reaching your brother while he lives. Ignore them and walk past. You will find your brother at the very top of the building."

There is a swirl of smoke and she is gone.

Dean all but runs into the building, frightened by her warning. He knows only that he must be in time to save his brother.

As soon as he enters, he sees four men at the far end of the room. They are clad all in black and carry the dangerous fiery weapons of the future. All of them are aimed at Dean, and his blood runs cold as his body instinctively reacts in fear of lead and burning heat.

"Stay back," one of them warns.

Dean fumbles for his own weapon – but that will take time, time his brother may not have. She told him to walk past them. Can he trust her?

Sam is in danger. He _must_ trust her.

He takes a deep breath and walks straight towards the far wall, where flashing lights indicate the elevators that can take him to the top of the building.

The men fire their weapons. He can hear the deafening bangs, see the flashes of light, but he walks on, teeth clenched against the expected pain. It never comes. As the woman promised, he walks past the men, unharmed. They dissolve into mist when he crosses them. He is alone in the room, nothing keeping him from his brother.

Dean presses the button that will summon the elevator.

It takes too long, too long, and a moment later he realizes that it will not come.

The building is higher than any castle, spires stretching to the sky. Dean must climb it afoot.

Sam is in danger. He does not hesitate.

* * *

Crowley holds a cup of hot spiced wine to Sam's lips. Sam pulls away, but, still tied up, he cannot move far.

"You think I'm going to drink anything you give me?"

"I've not poisoned it, Sam. And you should be a little more grateful. Rasputin would have killed for one of my brews. And I'm just trying for some Christmas spirit, here. Look." Crowley stands and waves, the gesture taking in the entire ivy-festooned room. Sam blushes again at the sight of some of the demon's decorations. "I'm all set for a party."

"Why are you doing this? You've got what you wanted. I have the tattoo. Now let me go."

"What can I say, Sam? I felt sorry for you."

"You… what?"

"I've had an eye on you for a few days. I know Dean's been… Well. Difficult. And I admit it's partly my fault. Being a demon wasn't very good for your brother's already miniscule ability to express himself without spontaneously combusting. I'm just trying to make it up to you."

Sam knows better than to trust the demon, but the next time the cup is held to his lips, a hand clamps down on his nose. Sam is forced to swallow.

The wine is sweet and warm and tangy, heady with cinnamon and cloves. And something else, something bitter, something that makes Sam's eyes widen as he chokes, trying to spit and breathe at the same time.

"Oh, relax," Crowley says. "It's just a little something to help with the pain."

He touches the still-bleeding cuts, pressing just hard enough to coax more blood from them. His fingers come away coated in red and black. He smiles at Sam as he brings his index finger to his lips to taste.

"Nothing quite like human blood… And yours. _You _almost made me human, Sam." A second swallow of the wine is forced down Sam's throat. His world begins to dissolve. "Kind of ironic, isn't it?"

* * *

Dean is exhausted. He has lost count of how many steps he has climbed. He does not know far he still has to go. He feels as though the stairs will never end.

But Sam is trapped, alone, helpless. Sam needs him.

He goes on.

At last he comes to the top. There is a single door that opens at his touch. He stumbles through –

Into an empty room.

His first, furious thought is that she betrayed him, whoever she was, she brought him here to make him waste time climbing stairs in an empty building while Sam was captive elsewhere. He should have known better than to trust a stranger with his brother's life.

Then he sees it. A single door in the far wall.

He goes to it. It lets onto a snow-covered terrace. A few feet away, a small spiral staircase ascends to a single room. There are no windows, only a brown door set in grey cement. Dean knows, with the instinct of years, that Sam is in that room.

He forces his legs up the last staircase.

This door is heavy, made of steel and stone, and it does not move no matter how hard he pushes. He throws himself against it over and over and succeeds only in hurting his shoulder.

He is close to giving up hope when he hears a rustle.

There is a woman beside him. Her face is unfamiliar, but one look into her green eyes tells Dean that she is the same one whose thoughtless curse was the cause of Sam's plight.

Before he can say a word, she speaks.

"Dean Winchester, I promised your brother a gift. You are his soulmate, so I will give it to you if you ask it." She smiles. "If you ask it, I will open the door that is closed to you."

"Yes," Dean gasps. "Yes, please, yes."

* * *

Sam is growing weak. The demon who cut the tattoo into his chest returned some time ago to open one of Sam's veins. Blood is oozing, sluggish but steady, into a bowl underneath.

Crowley still insists he has no intention of killing Sam. Sam thinks he might prefer death to whatever is about to happen. The demons have not told him why they are collecting his blood, but all his training tells him that it is for some dark spell. He does not know how long he has been here. It feels like days. He would have given up hope of Dean finding him if he had enough coherence left to hope.

When the door opens, he barely notices it, but the sudden light that floods the room makes him grimace and turn away.

There is noise, screaming and banging, and then a rough hand wrenches his head up and he knows the too-familiar feeling of cold steel at his throat.

* * *

"One more step," the demon snarls. "One more step and your brother won't be leaving this room alive."

"Let him go," Crowley orders. "We discussed this. We've got what we need. I don't want Dean Winchester after me for revenge. Let him _go_."

"Let him go?" the demon repeats incredulously. "Do they ever let _us _go?"

"Let him go," Dean says, "and I'll give you a day's head start before I come for you." He keeps his fear out of his voice, but it is churning in his gut. Sam has not reacted to his words, has not so much as looked at him since he entered the room. "Drop the knife and let him go."

"Not likely." The demon's blade scrapes down Sam's neck, leaving a thin trail of blood, past the terrible cuts on his chest, down to his stomach. "How about this? Not immediately fatal, but by the time you can get him to help, it'll be too late. It'll be fun to watch your hope die slowly."

"Tell me what you want and it's yours. Let him go."

The demon laughs. "I want you gone, Dean. You and your little brother. I'm tired of looking over my shoulder for a Winchester every time I make a perfectly legitimate deal. I'm tired of wondering if every call I get is going to be a recording of Sam's voice reading the exorcism rite. I'm tired of _you_, and your brother, and since our _King _clearly doesn't intend to do anything about you, I will."

It digs the point of the knife into Sam's gut, making him groan.

"Say goodbye to your baby brother, Dean."

Crowley is speaking, but Dean has no ears for him. All his focus is on the demon holding Sam, on the knife –

Dean dives –

The knife is buried up to the hilt in Sam's stomach. Once, twice, three times it stabs before Dean can pull the demon away and use his own knife to kill it.

The demon is dead and Crowley has vanished. Dean would pursue him, but he has no time for vengeance. He unties Sam's bonds, catching him before he can fall. Sam's head rests limply on his shoulder. Dean cannot say if his brother knows he is there.

That Sam needs medicine is clear. The cuts on his chest are angry and weeping, blood drips from a slit vein in his wrist and wells bright red against Dean's hand where he rests it on Sam's stomach.

But the snow has intensified into a blizzard now, and they are at the very top of an empty building.

* * *

Somewhere in the darkness surrounding him Sam hears a familiar voice. It urges him to his feet, making soothing noises when the effort almost sends him back to his knees.

He feels an arm around his shoulders, someone bearing most of his weight, and he stumbles forward. There is cold and sleet on his face. Then, indoors once more, there are stairs. More than once he trips and would fall but for the strong arm supporting him and holding him up.

On those stairs Sam realizes it is Dean's voice he hears and Dean's arm around him. A whisper of his brother's name brings them both to a halt. They stand on a narrow landing, while Dean takes a moment to rub his back and murmur comfort to him. Then they are moving again, and although the fog around his brain is just as thick, Sam finds it just a little easier to keep walking.

* * *

The trek down the stairs seems even longer than the way up, as they leave a trail of blood – Sam's blood.

Finally they are at the bottom, and Dean's Impala welcomes them both. She is blessedly warm. A little colour returns to Sam's face as Dean settles him inside. Dean gives Sam his coat for a pillow, but it is not long before Sam's head is resting on Dean's shoulder instead.

Dean is forced to drive slowly on roads made slippery by ice.

They have barely been in the Impala for five minutes when Sam asks him to stop.

"No," Dean grunts. "You need help."

"Dean, it's too late."

Dean remembers the woman with green eyes and her promise that if he reached Sam before the demon could hurt him, they would both live. He failed, failed by a few seconds to prevent the knife in Sam's gut, failed by hours, perhaps, from preventing his other injuries.

He brings the car to a halt, hands going up to Sam's face. He calls out to the angels, but if they hear, they do not respond.

Dean is alone with his dying brother.

"Dean," Sam mumbles, and everything he wants to say is in that word.

Dean holds Sam to him, as though he can will his brother's blood back into his body through strength of mind alone, as though the desperate hammering of his own heart will give Sam's fading pulse new life. Even as he whispers comfort and promises into Sam's hair, he knows it is hopeless.

A rapping at the window startles him. He looks up, and there is an indistinct figure outside.

He keeps one arm around Sam and opens the door with the other. The icy wind stabs into the warm inside of the Impala. Dean barely notices; he is too busy staring at the woman clad all in blue, with eyes like the summer sky. He knows those eyes.

"Please," he says.

She ignores him and speaks to Sam. "Sam Winchester, your brother has a gift of me. You are his soulmate, so I can give it to you."

Sam, barely conscious, says nothing.

"Yes," Dean gasps. "Yes, yes, give it to him, save him. Please."

"He must ask it of me. I cannot help him without his consent."

Dean's blood runs cold.

* * *

"Sammy." The voice is insistent. "Sammy, hey. Listen to me for a minute. Can you do that? Please."

Sam doesn't want to listen. The world is full of pain, and the darkness holds blessed oblivion.

"Sammy, _please_."

Sam has never been able to refuse that voice. It is an effort, but he opens his eyes, feeling heat and cold and pain and warmth and fear and –

Dean. Always, always Dean.

"Hey," Dean says gently. "Look, Sammy." He indicates a woman crouching beside them. "She can help you if you ask her to. She can heal you."

Some reaction Sam cannot identify makes his head shoot up.

"No, I know," Dean says. "Not like last time, I promise. She can heal you, you're alive and she'll heal you so you stay alive. That's all. Trust me, Sammy. Please trust me."

"Your brother is not lying," the woman says. "I will heal you, Sam, no more. Ask it of me, and I will."

Still Sam hesitates, but Dean's voice trembles, and Sam has not the heart to refuse him.

"All right." He looks at the woman. "Please… please help me."

She smiles at him, soft and gentle, and lays a hand on his stomach. Sam feels warmth flood him, spreading from her fingers as she traces the lines of his injuries. She runs her hands over the tattoo as well, so that the cuts close, leaving only the protective ink under his skin. Crowley's gift.

The healing leaves him weary beyond measure. He slumps against Dean's chest, mind drifting, brought back to sudden consciousness by the woman's hand on his shoulder.

"I know it was difficult, Sam," she says. "This was no test, but if it was, you would have passed. Both of you. You have trusted Dean, and he has been worthy. Go now, and have a joyous Yule."

* * *

A sudden knock at the door startles both Sam and Dean. Sam, already on his feet, goes to answer it.

The woman from the toy shop is outside. She steps into the room, shaking snow from her clothes.

"I came to see if you were well. My sister told me you were, but I had to know for myself. I am sorry, Sam. It grieves me that my thoughtlessness brought you to harm." She glances at Dean. "But it gladdens my heart that you found him in time, Dean Winchester."

"I almost wasn't in time," Dean growls. Sam is a little puzzled, but he can wait for his explanation later.

"You should give your brother his gift, Sam," the woman urges. "All of it."

Sam frowns at her, but Dean looks curious, and he has no choice but to fetch the wrapped parcel and give it to his brother.

Dean pulls the paper apart, smiling brightly and turning the key, laughing at the little wooden figures and their actions. A moment later, though, he frowns.

"What's wrong?" Sam asks. "Don't you like it?"

"What? No, no, it's great, Sam. It's just… It's supposed to be me and Mom and Dad, isn't it?"

Sam nods. He assumed that would need no explanation. "I thought… I thought it would remind you of back when you were happy. You know… Before the demon, before everything."

Dean looks at Sam like he is a teacher and Sam a particularly slow student. Sam scowls defensively, and Dean transfers his gaze to the woman. "You're a… a witch, or whatever you are. Didn't _you _know better?"

The woman shrugs. "I came to offer my final counsel. Give Dean his gift, Sam." She says again, with emphasis, "_All of it._"

Sam remembers the uncut piece of wood she gave him. He finds it in his bag and holds it out to Dean. Dean takes it like it is something precious. It looks ridiculously small in his hands.

"I can carve it for you," the woman offers.

Dean shakes his head. "No. I think… I think I'll do this one myself. We can take a couple of days off and… I mean… I'm not great at it or anything but… I'll do this one."

* * *

Three days later, Dean gives Sam a gift of his own. The wooden toy Sam got him has a fourth piece. The golden-haired woman no longer claps her hands; that is because her arms are full of a baby she holds close. The baby is far more crudely carved than the other figures, and the detailing is clumsy and inexpert, but Sam ignores all Dean's awkward apologies and hugs him.

* * *

"What happened to them?" Edna asked, as Iona's voice fell silent. "What happened to Sam and Dean… and the demon king?"

"I cannot tell you what happened to the demon king," Iona said. "That is a tale that belongs to the future."

"And Sam and Dean?" demanded Airic.

"What do you think happened to them?" asked Grainne.

"I think they lived happily ever after because they defended and protected each other as brothers do."

"Well, then," Reaghan said, smiling, "that is exactly what happened. That is what happens. That is what will happen. They will defend and protect each other as brothers do, and live happily all their lives… yes, and even beyond."

The yellow moon hung low and bright, like a promise.

* * *

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